


Raptured

by Claire_Dimlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Master of Death Harry Potter, tomarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-25 09:10:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15637638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire_Dimlight/pseuds/Claire_Dimlight
Summary: The first time they met, Tom had an inkling of an idea that the boy, Harry, was somewhat powerful, probably one of the few most powerful beings alive, but didn't want to indulge the idea just yet, not when the said boy didn't act like one.—it turns out there is more to him than meets the eye.(aka this Harry is just a year younger and admires Tom Riddle beyond sense. And he goes by the surname Peverell.)





	1. First Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language and this work doesn't have a beta-reader. We know that Harry admiring Tom is OOC, but I'll try my best to make the rest (whatever's left of it) stays IC. Thank you. Happy reading!

Tom is shaking, violently. In his clutch, a loaf of wet bread almost disintegrates into crumbs due to his strong grip. But he will not let it happen, after all the effort, after all the blood and bruises inflicted upon his thin body. He can not help the flinch as he pinches for a little amount and brings the crumb to his mouth. His bloodied knuckles sting like hell.

It will not satisfy his hunger, but it's better than nothing.

It's pathetic. How he almost failed to steal the damned thing. People had seemed more vigilant. Proof that he must find a new target. But where?

Drowned in his thoughts, he almost dismisses a pair of green eyes watching him from a few feet away. He glares at the intruder, more as an instinct than anything. The said intruder, a boy who probably only a year or two younger than him, looks surprised. He tilts his head and after a few moments he seems to find a decision.

"Hi," he trots the distance, crouching down by his side— at least he brings the conversation after the bread has gone to his stomach, "you looks hurt. Do you mind if I help you?"

Tom's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Your name?"

"You can call me Harry," the boy smiles. Tom begrudgingly admits it compliments his beauty.

"What can a kid like you can do? You are just—"

"Please excuse me," Harry does not give him a chance to decline. His small and cold fingers reaches out to his face. The touch is feathery, clearly he minds the cuts and bruises Tom sure linger there. That's the only warning Tom gets before the boy's lips meet his forehead and the next thing he knows, white blinding light explodes behind his eyelids.

It does not last long. The light already gone as fast as it comes. It leaves his ears ringing and makes himself somehow detached to his own body. Such a strange experience.

"You are okay now," Harry whispers. Tom is desperately searching for his ground. And when he finally finds it, he opens his eyes. Two things come to his mind immediately.

The sting and pain are gone. Tom glances down and yes, his skin is now flawless as if the cuts and bruises scattered before have been none but a joke. The second, the boy's face, which is too close for Tom's comfort, beams at him.

"What have you done?" Tom asks, finally finds his own voice. But it lacks its usual edge.

"Magic," Harry replies cheerfully. Tom narrows his eyes further.

"That's impossible—"

"Hadrian."

The two boys turn their head at the general direction where the voice came from. Tom finds a slender but tall man with aristocrats clothing gives his sharp gaze on them. Tom finds the gaze uncanny. And it says something since Tom knows how people often comment on his.

"That's my guardian," Harry whispers, still smiling. Tom drags his attention back to the boy.

"I suppose it's farewell, then...," he stands up reluctantly. He fiddles with the hem of his sleeve— which Tom belatedly realises, with burning envy, his clothing is also in fine material.

Harry offers his grin for the last time before he jogs to where his guardian stands. He clasps his fingers on the man's offered hand. Something in Tom's gut twists violently at the sight. And it disgusts him. He knows the feeling. It is supposed long gone since he knows he will never get the chance to taste the same luxury.

The pair suddenly stops in their track. Harry glances up and says something, earning a stiff nod from the man. His face lit up. He glances back to where Tom still rooted on his place. Alarmed, Tom decides he has to go back— not home. Wool's orphanage is not and will never be his home.

For a small body, Harry is quick to jog to his side.

"If you have spare time, please come to my house. We have snacks, toys, books, and some music instruments. It's Number 92. Muggles can not see it but since you are a wizard, I know you can."

"Wizard?" Him?

Harry blinks.

"Oh, so you are muggleborn. Well, all the more reason to why you should come. I will tell you everything about it— at least what I know," Harry grins sheepishly. Before Tom confronts him with more questions, the boy jogs back to his guardian. He waves his hands with so much vigor.

"See you again!"

* * *

 

Despite all the common sense, Tom finds himself two days later standing before a huge black gate made of steel.

Number 92 is not a simple house. It is a goddamn _mansion_. The biggest one Tom ever saw. But the fact is easily shoved far behind his mind as his gaze catches something very, very strange.

He makes things fly. He hurts people who hurt him. He made Billy Stubb's rabbit hung from the rafters— all the things bordering poltergeist phenomenon.

And yet, never in his life he thought he will witness a bunch of sunflowers so very much sentient and giggling on a certain someone's front yard. The frosty wind of mid-September howling only adds more the peculiarity. And...  did one of them just wink? At him?

"You came!" Harry beams, suddenly so close. Tom widens his eyes. He swears the boy just pops out from thin air. With a wave of the boy's hand, the gate unlocked. He happily ushers Tom to come inside.

"I am so glad you did! It's been so lonely for me. De— I mean, my guardian is seldom home." Harry chatters. Tom finds it weird that someone manages to feel genuinely happy seeing him. Most people find him upsetting. And freaky.

"Since it will be pain in the ass for us to walk, I am going to apparate us. Grit your teeth, it is not going to be a nice experience," Harry grasps his hand before Tom can protest, "On the count of three. One. Two. Three!"

Whatever the boy does, it gives his body sensations of being stretched and forced inside a tube. It's fleeting, fortunately. When his feet touch the ground again, Tom hopelessly tries to control the rise of bile in his throat.

"We're here!" Harry's voice worms its way from the buzzing in his ears, "What do you prefer first? Toys? Music? Snacks? Wait a minute, I haven't known your name yet, can you tell me your name?"

Tom glares at the boy when the buzz finally dies. Rage consumes him. He accumulates his willpower, intends to blast the boy to the wall. The boy only blinks. He tilts his head at the unseen pressure. Tom snarls in frustration, his attack does not budge him at all.

"Oh..." the boy seems to gather himself. He ducks his head. His cheeks painted in crimson.

"You are angry," he says softly. Tom bristles, of course he is! What did the tosser think he did?!

"I am sorry. It's been a long time since I talk to someone around my age... I just... forgot... myself," Harry says. From his gestures, Tom knows Harry means every word. Tom throws him his nastiest scowl. But cancels down the pressure.

After an awkward long pause, Tom finally says, "My name is Tom Riddle."

 


	2. Magic

"You said I was a wizard. How so?" Tom asks carefully, his eyes sharp. He admits the statement has plagued his mind. But he does not let it show on his face. Tom is very good at that.

Harry glances up, eyeing Tom from behind long eyelashes. He brings his fingers up, joining the tips against each other. He sucks on his bottom lip briefly.

"How about us sit down first? It will take long."

Tom nods. Harry beams at him. He skips towards the couch and plops down on it. He cheerily taps the space next to his. Tom ignores him. Instead, he chooses to sit on the opposite. Harry pouts.

"Now tell me the truth," Tom demands.

"Well," Harry begins, scratching the back of his head, "first things first, you can do things, right? I mean do things not everyone can..."

Tom's gaze never leaves him. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to."

Harry's mouth forms a small 'o', but he quickly snaps it shut. "Well, yeah. That is what called magic, thus makes you a wizard. There are people like us. But they form a world separated from muggle's— muggle is the term for non-magical human— do you like tea? Or there's something else you prefer?"

"Tea is fine."

Harry nods at him. He taps his finger on the table and not a second later a variety of snacks and a set of elegant china pop out on the surface. Tom's gaze lingers for a moment. He reaches out for the snack, eyeing it first before taking a small bite.

"So you are also a wizard," Tom states, "like me."

Harry nods profusely as he pours each cup one by one.

"But how did you know? I did not do anything, say, magical when we first met,"

"Oh well, I was using disillusionment charm— kind of— it's a bit different from the regular charm though— at the moment. The weak one. It makes muggles can not see me, but magical beings will easily see through that. And then I asked De— my guardian if you are a wizard, which he acknowledged so."

"And how did your guardian knew?"

"That is because he knows things."

Tom raises an eyebrow, coaxing Harry to elaborate further.

"He knows things," Harry shrugs, "He just does. I don't know how he does. But he is always true."

Tom thins his lips. Taking a mental note to probe Harry about his guardian when the next chance arises. "I see. Go on."

"Where were we? Oh right, you are wizard, Tom. Sorry. Can I call you Tom? Thanks. Wizards and witches will attend a magical school when their age reach eleven. In Britain, we have Hogwarts. So you will attend there. How old are you?"

"I will be nine by the end of the year."

Tom contemplates this fact. It is so interesting. He always  _knew_  he is special. But to think that he is actually a wizard...

"That's wicked! You are a year older than me! You're gonna be my upperclassman!"

Tom eyes Harry with a calculating look, "Is there anything else I need to know?"

Harry scratches his cheek. "To be honest? There's a lot. The prejudices. Gringotts. Quidditch... etc etc. But so long you understand that you are a wizard, you can find the rest in texts and books," Harry offers him a wide grin, "It is a good thing we have exactly that. Say, do you like to read?"

* * *

 

The library Harry shows to him is enormous. Tom is convinced it uses all the space in the west wing.

"First to third shelves are for children. Fourth to twelfth are for fictions. The thirteenth and up is for science, math, art— basically advanced knowledge but muggle ones. Down there is what we are looking for."

Tom glances at the floor intrigued. "Down?"

Harry gives him a grin like a Cheshire cat. Three careful taps with the tip of his shoe is all it takes and the floor slowly descends. 

Tom likes to learn. He knows it will bring him great things. He knows it will be useful one day. So seeing so many books like this brings him excitement.

Harry throws him a knowing look at his expression. Tom snaps his mouth into a scowl. Harry chuckles. 

"Hey look!" Harry reaches out, one of the books snaps from the shelf to Harry's awaiting grasp with a smack. He inspects the cover. Nodding to himself, he hands the book to him.

"It's one of the first books you need to read first."

Tom accepts it.  _Things Should be Known Before Your Arrival,_  the tittle says. He is about to open the book when the floor finally stops. It shakes softly under his feet for a moment.

Harry conjures a table and a pair of chairs with a clap of his hand. He makes another clap and the previous snacks and china set pop out. Tom takes a seat, pleased when he finds out the chair is indeed as comfortable as it looks.

Roughly a hundred pages later, Tom finds himself distracted by a few terms. He looks up, the boy is happily reading a fiction book while munching on a chocolate eclair.

"Harry," Tom calls the boy's name for the first time, "it says wizards and witches have a wand to do magic."

Harry answers without looking up, "Yes, they do."

"It says wandless magic is rare but is believed that whoever performs it, is magically strong," Tom says between gritted teeth, annoyed at being addressed absent-mindedly nor does he like at what it inteprets— that Harry may be better than him.

"Yes, that's right."

"You do not use one. Why?"

Finally, Harry lifts his chin up, putting down the half-eaten pastry. "Have you already on the 'accidental magic' part?"

"I did. But I know accidental and wandless magic are different. It's useless whatever you try to imply," Tom drawls.

"I was not trying to imply anything!" Harry exclaims defensively, "It's so obvious it is called accidental magic because, well, accidental. I was asking to make my answer easier."

Harry pouts but hurriedly continues at Tom's glare.

"I don't know how exactly I became like this. My guardian once told me it was because I have an old soul with many previous lives. He said Fate must be obliviated me— made me forget my previous memories— before I was born to this life. Hence why I am so familiar with magic."

"To me it sounds like a lie he'd say to a child."

"I know," Harry says softly, fiddling with the cover of the book on his lap, "but what he said feels like a truth, somehow."

Tom seizes him with a long stare. But he ends up not saying anything. It's been hours, he knows it's already late. "I have to go."

Harry's eyes meet his. His face looks crestfallen. Tom still can not quite warp his mind around the idea that someone can become unhappy watching him go. He tears his gaze, swinging the book back and forth, contemplating.

"Will you let me borrow this?"

"You are welcome to borrow more. Actually, it's better for you to borrow some books I have in mind."

Tom nods appreciatively.

"Tom?" Harry calls in a soft voice when they reach the front gate, "Will we meet again?"

Tom recalls the uncaring matrons and pathetic children with runny nose back at the orphanage. He decides Harry's company is a dozen times more acceptable.

"We will," Tom promises.


	3. Cold Hatred, Warm Arms

Being aware of his true self gains him some merits. It gives him entirely different viewpoint to ponder. Another it makes him easier to control his magic. _Magic_. Tom finally knows what it's called. And, isn't it a wonderful thing?

Sadly, it does not fix everything.

It's one of those days when the stupid muggles (ha! A repugnant word yet very fitting) think they are superior than him, thinking they can break him merely with spiteful names and fists, thinking their knuckles will send the freakiness out of him, telling with mocking voice he should be grateful they willing to take the effort to help him— hypocrites to the core! Each one of them!

Using magic is draining him— he hates himself for it. He sends the first three boys unconscious on the ground with sprained ankles and wrists bent to wrong angles. But it's not over. The display burns the rest seven boys into fury.

By the end he is no more than a punching sack.

Tom is laying on the dirt, in a heap of urine, spittle, and blood— at least the damned boys finally leaving him. His body is aching everywhere. Cold resentment fills him to the brim. He hates everyone; the useless matrons, the pea-sized brains children, Harry...

Harry.

Harry will help him, right? He will heal his bruises and chase away his pain, like the last time. He can help him.

Moving his limbs is almost an impossible feat. The jolt of pain surges through him mercilessly, stunning him for a moment. Groaning in pain, he palms his chest. Not broken ribs, he begs, remembering how nasty it will become.

By the time he reaches the front gate, the sun is setting down. 

' _Harry better be home,_ ' Tom thinks, tiredly. He does not think he will survive in frigid cold of September, with or without piss-soaked clothes. Reaching out, he rattles the bars, making as much noise as possible. Minutes later, cruel realization hits him.

Harry is not home.

Gritting his teeth, Tom rattles the bars again, in fury and desperation. He shouts. Frustrated and irrationally feeling betrayed. He puts his brow against the bars, seething.

He slips down and waits.

* * *

 

"Tom!"

Someone shakes his body awake. His eyelids feel so heavy, but he wills himself to stay awake, no matter how the idea of back to unconsciousness tempts him. Hypothermia, he muses absentmindedly, staring at a young man with familiar green eyes.

"Tom, oh Tom... What happened to you."

It is when the man holds him against his chest that he realises he is shaking rather tremendously.

Suddenly, his skin is tingling with warmth.

"You are going to be alright," the man vows softly. Gathering Tom in his arms, he pushes the gate and jogs to the entrance. Tom peeks at his face, wondering where he met the man.

' _Oh_ ' Tom finally recalls, ' _he is Harry_ '.

* * *

 

The grandfather clock in the corner chimes twelve times. Tom is slowly awake by the noise. The glaring light of midday sun is concealed by the curtains, he notes, silently thankful. By the end of the bed, Harry, back in his true state, stares at him with accusing look, arms crossed.

"You are bullied."

Tom slowly pulls himself to a sitting position. Glancing down, he marvels at the wound-free skin.

"Did you kiss me like last time?" Tom asks instead, deliberately ignoring his question. Harry is still an unknown cause. He is knowledgeable, powerful, and wealthy. If Tom keeps playing his cards right, he may be able to manipulate Harry.

Harry wrinkles his nose, clearly exasperated, but chooses to humor him.

"I don't kiss smelly people."

Tom lays his back against the headboard. "Do I still smell like one?"

"Like hell I will let you sleep on the bed if you do," Harry responds indignantly. But it's short-lived. He sucks his lip. "So, are you? Bullied?"

"What did you think when we first met? Wasn't it obvious?" Tom snarls.

Harry bites his lip. "I thought you just, well, boys being boys... it was not the first time I found a boy or two wounded on an alleyway."

That catches Tom's attention.

"Did you heal them?"

"Yea."

"By kissing them too?"

"Hold on, it's called giving a help. It's not merely kissing—"

"But you did kiss them."

Harry frowns, "What's wrong with you?"

"More than half of the boys in this town are either pricks or cowards. Fat chance these boys you 'giving a help' are the ones I hate."

"Oh Merlin," Harry laughs, "I thought you were jealous!"

Tom does _not_ splutter, so he snaps his jaw shut than to chance it.

After calming down, Harry sits down on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"I think I am fine, just hungry."

"That's normal," Harry smiles. He claps softly. A tray with cutlery and a bowl of steaming porridge appear on his lap. He takes the spoon, dipping it in the porridge and then blowing the content.

"Really? You are going to spoon feed me?" Tom asks, unbelieving.

Harry's smile is nothing but impish. "Please just humor me. It's been a while since I had fun by playing-house."

Tom gives him a deadpan stare, "You are a boy."

"So what? No one says boys can not have fun playing it too."

"Whatever," Tom rolls his eyes. He opens his mouth, taking the offered porridge filled spoon.

"Say," Tom starts after a moment, "how did you cure me?"

"I used potions."

"Hmm."

A pause.

"Tom? What the boys do besides, well, hurting you?"

Cocking his head to one side, Tom says in a careful tone, "They take my things away."

"Anything else?"

"Not really."

"I see."

Another pause.

"Did they also take the books?"

"They did," Tom lies, taking another spoonful porridge into his mouth. Harry sends him a smile, clearly trying to appear comforting.

"Well, that's fine. You can read another. It's a good thing that it's easy to find their copies."

Once the bowl is empty, Harry tells him he should take a rest. He says he will wake him up for dinner.

"Where do you live? I need to tell your parents to not worry."

"I am an orphan."

Harry looks taken aback, "Uh, well, I still need to tell your guardian though—"

"Don't bother. They won't care anyway."

Harry bites his lip. "You sure?"

He nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say how grateful I am that you were reading this. Your support, kudos, and comments have been amazing! Thank you! :'"D


	4. Diagon Alley

By eight, the night is accompanied by the pitter-patter of frosty raindrops, the sound of weeping piano through rippled notes, and the soft cracks of burning woods in the fireplace. A complete tranquilty Tom seldom finds.

His eyes are unseeing. A book lays forgotten on his lap. Half of his frame is buried in the armchair, melted into the softness.

Piano Sonata No. 14, Moonlight Sonata first movement, Ludwig van Beethoven.

A really sombre piece, indeed.

For a pair of hands that smaller than his, Harry's fingers somehow look long and dainty while playing the keys.

"Is it an often occurrence," Tom inquires, closing the book, fingering the jutted words on the cover, "you saving people?"

The corner of Harry's lips quirks a bit, finding a personal humor in his question. "Hmm... probably?" 

"To be honest," he continues, "someone once scolded me for doing too many the... this, my 'saving people things'. She told me it was a double-edged sword— you can not be a hero without a single cut on your flesh."

"Is this someone your friend?" Tom asks slowly with longer vowel sounds.

Harry's gaze becomes blank, glazed, his fingers stopping. "I don't know. Sometimes I heard her in a younger voice, sometime in an adult one— but I know they are the same person. She would scold me each time I do the saving things... in a studious voice— this would get me the feeling she had quoted a book... she would sound so terribly familiar, like a best friend, and the weird thing I would find myself missing her, almost physically painful. But no matter what, I can not remember her."

"You are too young to forget things, but who knows? It's more like you getting barmy, in my opinion."

Harry sends him a bleak smile. "Probably. Or, she exists, well, _existed_ , in my earlier life."

"You still believe in that?"

"It's better than the other alternative, you know, me being barmy."

Tom rolls his eyes. Harry grins. He resumes his play. This time an unknown piece. A happier tune.

"I am going to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow," Harry announces, "want to come with me?"

Tom's eyes brighten.

* * *

 

"I thought you were using charm last time, not some questionable green liquid with foul taste," Tom grumbles in dismay.

"No, I did not," Harry, in his mid-twenties glory, says cheerily, "and it is called ageing potion, not just some questionable liquid. Look at the result! Or better, look at you! Are you not a fine bloke?"

It's a bit hard to stay peeved when he is but buzzing with exhilaration. The aspect of going to wizarding world soon is impossible to make his mood dampen. Not to mention, it's the first time him witnessing a potion works. Ageing potion does have benefits to ponder. He already has a dozen probabilities how to survive in muggle's world with the potion alone...

He will ask Harry how to make the potion later.

"I am tall."

"And handsome. Can not argue with that," Harry replies easily, adjusting his collar, "Like this, people will take us more seriously."

"Why do we need to use a potion? Is there not easier method? Glamour, if I correct?"

"Glamour is easily countered by _finite incantatem_ , not a very good choice in my opinion. Potion is safer. You keep the spare vials?"

"In my pocket."

"Good. Remember to take it each hour to prolong the effect."

He juts his hand out— his skin looks so pale. A glaring contrast. Snowy white flesh against the sea of blackish clothing— robe, Harry had said. "Beware of the flirtatious witches. Merlin knows there are so many of them— especially the old hags, oops bad words! Well, now take my hand and tell me when you are ready to apparate. We can not let the history repeats itself."

Tom snorts, but accepts the offered hand. He nods to Harry, showing his consent. He immediately holds his breath at Harry's cue ' _here we go, off to Diagon Alley!_ '.

Tom doubts he will be used to the sensation of being forced into a tube. It still leaves his stomach reeling. At least he is better at fighting the bile rising in his throat this time. Straightening his back, he gulps down the scenery around him.

Diagon Alley is a cobblestone shopping area. '... _inside the alley is an assortment of restaurants, shops, and other sights. All items on the Hogwarts supply list can be bought at Diagon Alley. The alley is completely hidden from the Muggle world which is right outside of its boundaries. It is very large in area and essentially the centre of wizarding London_...' Tom can't help but remember a citation of a certain book.

Before he completely regains his composure, Harry pulls him to the nearest shop. He glances up and finds a hanging sign. 'Flourish' and 'Blotts' are neatly printed on it, separated by a cursive ampersand font in the middle.

"What can I do for you, sir?" a young wizard, the clerk, probably in his late twenties, flashes a professional smile.

Harry smiles back. "Please bring me all Bathilda Bagshots and Adalbert Waffling's books."

The clerk nods his head vigorously, "Sure, I will do it in a jiffy."

He waves his wand and more than a dozen books snap from the shelves. He then presents them with a grin. Harry leans down to take a look. He frowns.

"I think something is missing... ah, right. Please also bring me _A History of Magic_ and _Hogwarts : A History_."

The wizard furrows his blond brows. "I am sorry sir for the inconvenience, but it's the first time I hear such books."

Harry blinks owlishly. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. I am afraid."

Tom glances at him, silently lifting an eyebrow. Harry purses his lips. "Well, that's fine."

"Actually, sir. I am very intrigued with the books you mentioned. Please do tell me when you find them. Of course I am also offering some galleons, in exchange."

Harry nods absent mindedly, "Sure. How much are these?"

"7 Galleons and 12 Sickles, sir."

Harry fishes out the money from his pocket robe and hands them after a quick calculation. He easily shrinks the books and dives them into his other pocket. He glances at Tom and offers a bright smile.

"To the next location!"


End file.
